Mirrors
by Cornelia Grayson
Summary: Greg Lestrade sits in his office, waiting for news. Mycroft Holmes sits at home, waiting for change. Can they save each other? Rated T for angst.
1. Chapter 1

**I hope you guys enjoy this. It should be part one of 4 and have a rough idea of where I'm going, but if you have any ideas, don't hesitate to let me know! It's possibly a bit OOC but I was using artistic licence.**

**Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine.**

Lestrade

5:45 – Asleep. No, really, I'm asleep. Definitely. Not pretending I am so I don't have to get up or anything. And definitely not pretending I am so I don't have to go downstairs and face breakfast. Alone. By myself. Nope, I am most definitely asleep.

6:00 – _Alarm. _Now, I'm awake.

6:05 – Getting in the shower. I enjoy showers. Is that weird? I expect it is, especially for a man. Especially for a man who also happens to be a Detective Inspector. I know I'll be more awake after this shower. And I'll smell of lemons. All lemon-ey and fresh.

6:30 – I smell like lemons now. Breakfast. Toast and marmalade – orange marmalade. Strange, I have such a normal home life and yet I don't think I've had a normal day's work since… well, I don't know. Since I met Sherlock at least. And I've _definitely_ not had a normal day's work since he…

6:35 – In the car. It's stupid getting the car to the train station, then getting the train to work. But still, I work in the middle of London on a tight time schedule; I can't be late because of traffic or finding a parking space or anything like that. Especially now - I'm still being investigated for that Sherlock thing. I mean, is it _my_ fault that Sherlock decided to become a criminal? And how come I'm the only one taking the blame for it? Other detectives, other _better_ detectives, were hoodwinked by him too, so how come it's only me that's still under supervision? Why am I the only Detective Inspector in London confined to paperwork? Then again, I'm not the only man being punished. John Watson. Last time I saw him he got sent down for assaulting a police officer. 5 years, he got. And he'd lost Sherlock too. And it's not just him, either - Mrs Hudson lost them both.

7:00 – In work. It seems there's never any queues on the tube anymore. Not since that last explosion. I know I can catch the disgusting criminal who did it At least, I could have. Or, to be honest, Sherlock could have. But I _am_ detective inspector, and I didn't get this rank because of Sherlock Holmes. I can catch criminals when I need to. But it seems that no one really remembers that. Sometimes I really, really hate Sherlock. Then I remember what happened to him, to John, to Mrs Hudson, to Molly. I don't even see Molly anymore. God knows why. I spend my days stuck in an office with bloody Donovan and Anderson – no, I didn't mean that. They're the only things keeping me sane at the moment.

7:45 – Granted myself a coffee break. Opened my computer to find 54 emails waiting for me. Last time I give myself the weekend off, let me tell you. So far trawled through 4 of them. Nothing interesting: an audit on stationary (why are there so many of these?); a congratulatory e-mail for keeping overtime low, despite my "heavy workload"; a note to remind me that I'm due in a disciplinary hearing in two weeks (yeah, because I really needed reminding); and a message from Anderson to tell me that Sally and he are at a crime scene – he doesn't need to tell me that. I am still the boss here, even if I am under office arrest, and I still demand respect from my colleagues. God, I miss working out there, in the real world. That's proper police work, not this light-hearted rubbish I'm being forced to do. I even miss Sherlock and his patronizing insults. Wow, I need to get a life.

8:30 – Two more cases landed on my desk this morning. Currently, I'm the only person in the office. Received a text from Donavon a few minutes ago; apparently her and Anderson have stopped for coffee. I let her know about the cases. They're long ones but I can tell that just from skim-reading them she can carry them on once I've been sacked or demoted or whatever they're planning on doing to me. I know they've got Sally Donovan lined up as my replacement –maybe that's why I'm being so hard on her, to get her ready for the job once I'm gone. Or, more likely, out of jealousy. That she'll be able to go on doing what I love when I'm… when I'm what? I don't know what I'll do. Policing is my life. Without it, who _is_ Greg Lestrade? I was never this sentimental. Maybe Sherlock was rubbing off on me.

10:15 – Email from my solicitor. My wife wants a divorce.

11:00 – Donovan and co. are back. That has got to have been the longest coffee break ever. They're all buzzing from the crime scene from this morning: forensics, the amount of blood, young Merridew falling over and contaminating the crime scene. They've re-enacted it about 6000 times since they've breezed in. Donovan thinks it's a burglary gone wrong, Anderson thinks it's a crime of passion. I don't really care. I don't even know what's happened, I mean, I'm not even sure it was a murder. It could have been assault or rape or… I've sent Merridew to sober up. I might not be your typical down with the kids' type but I can still tell if someone's not quite got home yet. Especially when they're wearing yesterday's clothes and slurring. Given up on tackling the emails for now. I might offer to write up the case for them, put it on the board. Just because I'm not doing front line policing doesn't mean I can't get involved, right? They've not taken my badge away from me just yet.

11:45 – Back in my office. That was humiliating. They looked to her, not me. I sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum and you know what? I am throwing a tantrum. I have been in the force for years. Most of this team was with me way before Sally Donovan was even _thinking_ of joining the force. So how come she's the one with all the respect? I was just giving the facts but then she jumps up, and they all listen. All of them. I mean, I know I'm not the most attractive man, or even the most interesting, but they could - no, they_should_ pay me the courtesy of paying attention. To me. Not to her. I've given up. If I get to stay in the force, I might request a transfer. I get no respect here, not that I got much before to be honest. They can solve this case. It's obvious it's a fall out over money that got too far anyway. I never thought I'd say this but I'm sticking with the paperwork for the time being.

12:00 – I'm just going to have lunch in here. In safety. I've got sandwiches. Cheese ones. And tea, from my personal kettle. They don't have a personal kettle, they have to share one. Yes. I'm being childish. I'm allowed, I've been through trauma, there's probably some sort of mental illness I've got. I just don't want to be here anymore. Just in work, I mean, not that I want to die or anything. I think. No. I don't want to die. I couldn't. I've got too much to live for. Like…

12:15 – Do I want to die? I can't see why I would, but then I can't see why I wouldn't either. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do now. Talk to someone, maybe. Talk to who? Not Sally. Or Anderson, or Molly, or Merridew, or… There's no one else. Not really. Not even my wife. John's out of the question, I've heard he's attempted suicide three times in the last five months. I might just get back to work.

13:00 - … Bored.

13:30 – That email. It's from Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother. Why does he want to talk to me? And why am I so scared to open it? It must be that I expect bad news. That much is obvious - nothing is going right today.

14:00 – I've just spent the last half an hour rereading the same ½ page of A4. He wants to meet me. Why? To talk about Sherlock, I guess. But why me? I've never even spoken to the man. Not directly, at least. I've spoken to his ... what would you call her? Personal assistant? He ordered me to go follow Sherlock to Baskerville. And I did. Why? Why would I follow the orders of a man I don't even know to go and spy on a… friend? And why on the orders of a man that very good friend was known to call his arch-nemesis? I suppose that was Sherlock, though, a drama queen. And I kind of wanted to follow him, I guess, I wanted to know what he was up to. Even I knew it wasn't a romantic weekend away, despite what the rumours were saying; romance isn't the first word I would use to describe Sherlock Holmes. Or John, for that matter. And talking about John, wouldn't Mycroft talk to him, if he wanted to talk about Sherlock. His brother and his… well, it would make more sense than talking to me. I barely knew the man. Well, I did go and see him at Christmas, but only because he asked me to, and only because I knew Molly wanted to go and I knew she wouldn't go alone. Anyway, I didn't stay long, I was working. And where was Mycroft? If he and his brother were so close, where was he at Christmas?

14:15 – Why am I so worked up over this email? Why didn't I just reply "yes" and find out what he wanted that way? I would have been a lot easier than trying to second guess the brother of the cleverest man alive. I guess that makes Mycroft the cleverest man alive now. Maybe that's why I didn't want to meet him - maybe I felt intimidated. That still makes no sense. I was intimidated by Sherlock. Then again, I only saw Sherlock for work. Except for that Christmas. But that was for Molly. I'm just going around in circles here…

14:30 - What do I even know about Mycroft? He's Sherlock's brother, of course, but apart from that? I could always run his name through the computer…

14:35 – His file's classified at the highest level. Way higher than me. Higher than the entirety of the police, if that's even possible. I don't even know why I did that… I wouldn't run anyone else's name through the database; I'd just reply and move on. That's what I'll do. Right now. Just reply. Say yes. It's easy.

15:00 – I said yes. So, why can I not stop thinking about it? I arranged to meet Thursday at 19:30 in La 's 2 days away. 52 and ½ hours. 3180 minutes. 190800 seconds. 190799. 190798. Why am I doing this?

15:30 – I've not felt this nervous for years. Not at Sherlock's post mortem. Not at my most recent disciplinary hearing. Not even thinking about this up and coming one. Not since my wedding day, to be honest. Oh God, I'm not nervous because… no. I can't be. I mean, I'm not… No. I've just got divorced. NO. I'm still married. I'm not…

17:00 – I'm just going to go home. This is doing my head in. I think, without a doubt, this has been the worst day of my life. I can't even think about Thursday. Or maybe I could, if I just relaxed and stopped worrying. Stop worrying, yeah, that'd be a luxury. I don't think I could stop worrying if you paid me. But when I do think about Thursday, without worrying I mean, I'm excited. It'll be the first time I've met someone who hasn't wanted to kill me since the whole Sherlock thing. Unless he wants to kill me, and that's why he's invited me out… Let's not even go there.

18:00 – Eating. There's nothing worse than eating alone. Not after you've eaten with others. On Thursday, I won't have to eat alone. (Shutting up now.)

18:30 – Showering. Again. I feel sick. And no, it's not nerves for Thursday. Well, it is, but its nerves for my hearing too. And my divorce. That's such an ugly word. Divorce. And more than that… my life. I've got no control over it, none at all. And I'm terrified. This time in two weeks I could have… nothing. No job. No family. No home, looking at my bank balance. Nothing.

19:00 – I need sleep. I can't cope with this. Not now. I feel like a kid again, going to bed early. I want someone to come and soothe me, like my mum did when I was little, to tell me it will all be all right and that nothing will go wrong. To tell me that when I wake up, my life will be back as it was. But then again, maybe it will be. God, I can't wait until Thursday. It will give me something to cling on to. Hopefully.

20:00 – Can't sleep.

21:00 – Still can't sleep.

22:00 – Still can't sleep. I might go get a drink.

00:10 – Asleep.

**Thanks for reading, and please, please review! For me! Even if it's just to say it was awful! :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: None of the characters here are mine.**

Mycroft

8:30 – One wakes early, at the same time one wakes every day. I need to dress yet I remain in bed for 20 minutes thinking that maybe, just maybe, today Sherlock would come back. For John, of course. And for him.

8:35 – It's Tuesday. That means time for a bath, not a shower. Lemon bubble bath, one thinks. Sherlock always had lemon bubble baths when we were little. He'd jump around and soak the entire room, playing with toy cutlasses and parrots. Sherlock always wanted a parrot – he wanted to call it Deoxy after Deoxyribonucleic Acid. That was Sherlock for you, interested in science even when he wanted to be a pirate. He would have made a great pirate. Not one of these new ones but a proper good old-fashioned pirate. He would have made such precision-perfect plans for robbing and looting, it would never have gone wrong. And of course, the sailing and surviving at sea would have come easily to him.

9:02 – Two minutes late. One would have got out on time, but the hot water took longer than usual to come on.

9:00 – Breakfast. Today, one will have four sausages, four rashers of bacon, black pudding, baked beans, five slices of fried bread, scrambled egg and two fried eggs. Well, the British government has to keep his strength up, doesn't he? And one would have had more, except there seems to have been some sort of egg shortage in Britain. Now, there's a case Sherlock would love; "The case of the missing eggs". Things like that kept him sane; they were why he woke up in the mornings. Then again, this wouldn't have taken him too long. It was obvious that since the government (not me this time, someone much lower down… like the Prime Minister) had started the "Save the Animals" initiative, suppliers wanted to be seen to be eco-friendly so would have only chose to take free range eggs. That, in itself, would lower the amount of eggs available. But then, the supplier's deliverer had an accident whilst carrying eggs to headquarters, and the eggs were no more. It was on the news, for crying out loud, why does no one truly see? Sherlock would have gone ballistic; he hate stupidity, whereas I, I don't mind it so much. Sherlock hated eggs anyway; chances are he wouldn't have taken the case. I never understood that - Sherlock was so bored all the time, but when a case came along, nine times out of ten he would refuse to take it. Or maybe I respected it - the ability to keep on his high horse, even if it meant giving up something that would have made him happy.

9:30 – The morning paper arrives. Nothing about Sherlock. Nothing. It's only been a few months. How quickly the minds of the British Public can turn to something else. It's primitive, almost. At the end of January, the public wanted to hunt him down and kill him. Richard Brook was their new hero. John Watson was being stalked by feral newspaper editors with nothing better to do. That was disgusting; he couldn't even grieve in private. And when he got sent down for assault… he's never going to recover. I offered to help get him help, put in a word, and say he was under duress, but he refused. He banned me from ever going near him again, from talking about Sherlock to him. I guess I deserved that. It broke my heart though. Felt like losing my brother twice. There's some story about a policeman who has some hearing coming up. It doesn't say why. I wouldn't have noticed, if it didn't mention his name. Greg Lestrade: the policeman who used to hang around with Sherlock. Who used to give him cases, when he was bored. I sent him on a job for me once; I didn't speak to him of course, Anthea did. I told him to follow Sherlock and John to Baskerville and find out what they were doing. It was so unlike my brother to go away; I could barely contain my curiosity. I thought about going myself, on a sort of holiday, but I am the British government. If I went away, the developed world would fall. I suppose Sherlock would say that was Mrs Hudson. Would have, I mean. Whilst he's away, it's would have.

9:45 – Time for one's daily car ride. If one has a chauffeur, one should use it to drive places, correct? We'll probably go around London, like normal. Sherlock and I loved to do that when we were little -people watch out of Daddy's car windows. I enjoyed finding the "posh" people, seeing how they carried themselves and how they acted amongst the poor people. I particularly enjoyed the "posh" people that would pretend to be poor, or the ones who were drunk. On the other hand, Sherlock watched the homeless men and women on the street. He always wanted to know their stories, who they were, who they had been, how they'd ended up on the street. And people fell over themselves to tell him. Eventually, Mummy and Daddy started to lock him in the house. He'd go out and talk to the homeless, coming back late, hungry, and covered with lice. Sherlock never understood why that was wrong, why he couldn't mix with people like that.

10:30 – Home. Again. One should probably go to the Diogenes club; after all, one did co-found it. However, one hasn't been there since that fateful day. Imagine the looks one would get. The cold, disapproving looks, and the whispers behind one's back about the Holmes family; the cold father who was never there; the loving mother who loved too much, pushed away her sons; the younger brother, a sociopath who found fighting crimes boring, and turned criminal; and the older son, hiding behind his rank and power, too ashamed to face up to what he did. No. That will not do. One will… stay home, eat, sleep, and wait. Wait for the day when that older son does not need to be ashamed anymore, when he can walk out without hiding his face. When he can see his brother, and tell him how sorry he is, and show the world that the Holmes name needs not to be in disgrace, but to be in lights, for the services it has given to the country.

10:48 – The phone rings. Some member of staff answers it. Nothing important.

10:52 – The phone rings again. It's the same person apparently.

10:53 – The phone keeps ringing. Someone's being persistent. Next time it rings, I think I'll answer it. I've got nothing else to do. No job, no friends, no family. A phone call with a complete stranger is better than nothing.

10:55 – They've not called back yet.

10:59 – They're not going to call back. They've moved on. To the next call, the next case, the next nut to crack. They've moved on. They_can_. Me, I'm stuck. Waiting for something that might not even happen. To be perfectly honest, I have no idea what I'm waiting for. Just… something, something that will change this stupidly tedious schedule I'm stuck to.

11:15 –They called back. They were letting me know that the gas bill's going up. I don't deal with bills, I am the British government after all, one has servants to do that sort of thing. I handed the phone over. So, it's back to staring out the window. And waiting.

11:22 – I should do something drastic. Get out, talk to someone who doesn't call me sir. Change my schedule. I've been doing the same thing, every day, at the same time, every day, for the last thirty years. The only thing that changes is the conversation. And even that's stopped now. Since Sherlock… since the death of Richard Brook, I've got the feeling people have been avoiding me. Crime couldn't have just_stopped_. Sherlock wasn't a criminal. Then again, Moriaty was…

11:30 – Maybe I could have dinner early. Or have two. I stopped having elevenses when Sherlock started teasing me about my weight again. But, now he's not here, I could start again… This is why I started eating when I was little. To hide away, to hide my feelings. I suppose you'd call it comfort eating. But I prefer "dining".

11:55 – One's eaten too much. Again. And one feels sick. And one is scheduled to eat again in twenty minutes. Oh dear… sometimes listening to Sherlock is a good thing.

12:15 – Dinner has been served. Shepherd's pie: mince, carrots, peas, sweetcorn, mashed potato. I swear these meals are getting larger every day. I'll eat it anyway; one doesn't like to appear rude.

12:45 – That's it. I have to get out. But to where? To arrange a meeting with someone would mean contacting hundreds of people before I could even get a list of those whom it has been deemed acceptable for one to contact. And then one would need to choose someone, find a suitable place to meet, choose a suitable time, and the manpower involved would be astronomical. It's impossible; I don't know why I'm even considering it.

12:46 – Or, I could just arrange it myself. Could I? I don't see why not. I'd have to find a computer… or I could use my phone.

12:48 – Who to contact? And what to talk to them about when I do? Someone from work – no, the whole point is I'm getting away from work. Away from crime and the depression that surrounds it. Someone who knew Sherlock. No. A complete stranger, then. But that could be dangerously unsafe, and incredibly boring. I've been told I intimidate people when I first meet them, and normal people lead such boring lives. How they manage to get through them is beyond me, even with my incredibly superior intelligence.

12:50 – Now, there's a thought.

12:55 – I know he knew Sherlock. And that he works in crime. And he's a man with an inquiry hanging over him, so he might not be up for talking. But he's the best man I can find. And he seems interesting enough; I doubt he'd call me sir, at the very least. And he's clever – I've heard him, cracking cases almost as fast as Sherlock. He's single too; no time to get back by, no spouses to please beforehand. He'd probably be up for meeting, it's highly unlikely he's got anything else to do, and chances are he'll want someone to talk to about everything that he's had to deal with recently. About Sherlock, about his job, about his life. I'll email him.

13:00 – I'm not sure what to put. Why not? I'm a genius, cleverer than anyone alive, cleverer than Sherlock, even. I suppose it could have something to do with the fact I've not sent a message to anyone in the last thirty years. Except Sherlock, of course. But everyone else, I just call them. Or talk to them. Or get someone else to email them.

13:03 – It's not just that though. I can still write an email when I need to. But I just can't write one to Greg Lestrade. It's almost as hard as writing that very first message to Sherlock was, ten years ago. But why? I'm not good with feelings, it's got something to do with my childhood apparently. No idea what it could be…

13:05 – I'll keep it basic. But that might look rude.

13:07 – Right, done. Here:

Greg Lestrade,

You may remember me. My name is Mycroft Holmes, the elder brother of Sherlock Holmes by seven years. We have corresponded, of course, when I sent you to Dartmoor to ensure my brother and his companion, John Watson, were safe and not falling foul of the law. However, unlike that time, today I have taken the time out of my busy schedule to personally contact you to request a meeting on Thursday night, at 1930 hours, in La Tasca, the restaurant on Chanctonbury Way. Please respond accordingly, within the next 24 hours.

Yours most graciously and respectfully,

Mycroft Holmes

Advisor to the British Government

13:28 – I haven't pressed send. I should really do that.

13:29 – Sent.

13:30 – I wonder if he's received it. Or read it. And what he thinks, if he has.

14:00 – The post has come through the security checks. Nothing. A few bills, but I don't deal with them. A letter stating that my father's medal of honour has been revoked, due to issues with the evidence given at the time. Nothing of any importance. Not what I've been waiting for, anyway.

14:43 – He's replied. Said yes. It's brilliant, something to look forward to. Someone to talk to at last, and I feel so happy! I have no idea why, it must be because it's a change. I feel motivated, at last. It's nothing to do with who I'm talking to, or what we're going to talk about, just the fact I'll be talking. Finally.

16:00 – Dinner is served. A light supper of roast beef, roast potatoes, roast carrots, roast parsnips, cauliflower, broccoli, peas and gravy. Yorkshire puddings, too. I'd never realised how lonely it is, dining alone. The silence. No noise to drown out all of the gulping, chewing, chomping and swallowing that goes on. Isolation is hard, especially when one knows they've forced it upon themselves.

23:00 – Spent the last few hours sitting alone. Waiting for a suitable time for me to retire. I have lots of time to think, nowadays, when I'm alone. I might put my mind to the economy tomorrow, it shouldn't be too hard to crack it. I am the British government after all, and the cleverest man that's ever live. If I can't solve it, it can't be solved. It should take my mind off Thursday too. I'm nervous. I have no idea why.

23:19 – Asleep.

**Reviews, por favour. For me! Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the complete lack of updates, recently. I've had an awful few months, and I've been really busy as well, so writing's taken a bit of a back seat. Hopefully, I'll have the final part of this fic up soon, by the end of the month definitely. Please review. For me. It will keep me writing. Please. :D**

**Disclaimer: None of the characters or storylines you recognize are mine.**

5:45 – Awake. And lying in bed until I need to get up. For once, I really want to get up. I don't know why – yes, I do. It's Thursday. The first day, for what feels like years, when something really amazing is happening, something that I'm truly looking forward too. And I won't be alone, or stuck "discussing" things with Donovan and Anderson, I'll be with… someone. That's the only problem, the only cloud on the horizon. Who really is Mycroft Holmes?

6:00 – _Alarm. _I can get up without looking to keen. Not that he'd see, if I did get up early, but it's good to get in the right frame of mind. Isn't it?

6:05 – Not that I'm worrying about looking keen. Because obviously, I'm not keen. Because it's not a date, it's just a way to meet up. With someone who want to meet me. And talk to me. For me, I think.

6:10 – Getting in the shower. Lemon time. Except I ran out of lemon shower gel yesterday. I'll have to use lime instead. That's a pity, I don't even like the smell of lime. Sherlock told me once that most people use the same scented shower gel as they did in their childhood; it makes them feel soothed and relaxed, some mumbo-jumbo like that. And Sherlock always used Lemon. John told me; he looked really embarrassed after that. So, Mycroft should use lemon too, right, following that logic. What happens if he doesn't like lime? Why would that even matter? It's not even a date, it's just a meeting. An intellectual meeting of minds, with more of the intellectual on his side than mine.

6:20 – I smell like limes now. It's awful.

6:30 – Breakfast. I think I'll have muesli. Well, I did buy some the other day. And I can't have toast every day, I'll get scurvy or something. Then again, the orange marmalade should put that off; orange wards of scurvy, right? Why am I overthinking everything today? Right. Get the Muesli Greg. No, not there Greg, in the cupboard. By the fridge. Today is going to be such a long day. And I have a briefing with Donavon and Legard later.

6:45 – In the car. My life is so repetitive, it's unbelievable. But, at least, there are some changes, little inexplicable things. Like the weather. And the time. But more importantly, the people I meet. And what they say, how they act, and what they do. Blimey, hark at me, Greg Lestrade, the philosopher. When did this start? Must be Sherlock. Jumping off a roof, what was he thinking? He's changed me as a person. I swore I'd never let that happen. I didn't, when he was alive. It's losing him apparently. That's what my solicitor said anyway. I'm getting emotional advice from my solicitor. Seriously. And I lost them all: John, Molly, my job, my wife.

7:00 – Work. I don't even feel angry about this anymore. About being chucked out of my job. I know I've not really been chucked out of my job, but I will be. And to be honest, it seems like I have been. I don't do anything anymore. I sit here. In an office job. If I wanted an office job, I would have applied for one when I left school. I wouldn't have had to go through years of training. I wouldn't have had to see people die every month. Every week. This is draining the life out of me. This uncertainty. This confusion. This boredom. But I swear to God, I will get my life back. Tonight. My job back, I mean. I'm sure Mycroft Holmes can help me. He is the British government, after all.

8:30 – Text from Sally. Anderson and she have solved one of those cases we got two days ago. Lies! I know full well it was Merridew last night. I was still in the office when he cracked it. He asked me if he should go and arrest them but I told him to wait until today, for God's sake. He'll make one hell of a good copper one day, I can tell that already. He'd be a brilliant head of division too, well, if he hadn't come out as homosexual. Establishments are so homophobic nowadays, especially the Chief Commissioner. I mean exactly how many heads of departments are there, that are fully, you know, out? None, that's how many. Good thing I'm not, you know, homosexual, or I'd have no hope of hanging onto my job.

12:00 – I fell asleep. I can't believe it. I haven't fallen asleep at work… well, ever. I never even feel asleep at school. Or nursery, I couldn't. It felt weird, being watched whilst I slept. I'm not even that tired. I'm just stressed. And nervous. About tonight, I mean, and going out. Oh… what happens if I fall asleep tonight? He will hate me too. I'm doing my four year old throwing a tantrum act again. I need to grow up.

17:00 – I'm going home. I can't concentrate. I'll go shopping on my way home, pick up some pasta for tomorrow. And milk. Then I'll relax before tonight.

17:05 – Maybe I'll buy some lemon shower gel too. For tomorrow, obviously. I'm not going to work smelling like lime's again. It's awful.

17:45 – I'm too nervous to go into the shop. I am a normal guy. I am going into a shop. I am going to buy shower gel. Lots of people do it! I see them, every day, and I can do it too. It is not hard.

18:10 – That was easier than expected.

18:15 – Cannot believe I just left work early to buy lemon shower gel. I'm just going for a meal, with a friend. It is really not that much of a big deal – so why am I so worried?

18:30 – I'm going to have a shower. I know I bought that shower gel for tomorrow but… I really need some lemon-y freshness right now. It will calm me down. And stop me smelling like some girl's perfume. I don't know what it is with lime, but it really makes me feel sick.

19:00 – Half an hour. If I was a girl I'd make some sort of squeal-y noise of excitement right about now, but I'm not. I'll just have to settle for having a beer, I suppose. I can't sit still. Is that normal? I need to get out more often, if it will stop me getting so het up over a little… what would you call it? Meeting? Talk? Time's ticking away as I sit here… Help!

19:15 – Time to leave. Oh Jesus, this is awful. I don't even know what I'm doing. Why am I going? Is it too late to call in sick? Call. In. Sick. What is up with me? This isn't work, for crying out loud, this is my life. It's just two guys, having dinner, and talking. It's perfectly normal. So why can't I cope with it?

19:30 – At the restaurant. Well, outside anyway. I can't go in if he's not in there. I'd look stupid, and what would I ask for anyway? A table for two? Think of the looks we'd get when Mycroft comes in. Mycroft Holmes. That's… I can't make it known I'm seeing Sherlock's brother, especially if I want my job back! And what surname to use? Holmes? Lestrade? And what do I call Mycroft when I meet him? Mr Holmes, I guess. Hopefully, not Lord or anything. He is the British government, maybe Mr Britain is closer to the mark. I shouldn't have had that drink before I came out.

19:40 – This is getting stupid. I need to go in. What if he's already in there? Sitting alone, I know how that feels. I hate it. I can't let him go through that. But what if I go in now and he's angry? What if he leaves? I can't go through that, really I can't.

19:45 – That's it. I'm going in.

19:46 – Name. What do I say? Oh God, he's here. Standing up, calling me over. Everyone will see. I'm blushing. The first chance at a proper conversation I get in weeks and I get all embarrassed. What is wrong with me?

19:50 – So, he's introduced himself. And I have. And we're sitting here. In silence. This is so uncomfortable. Maybe I should just make my excuses and go. He looks so normal; I'd heard he'd locked himself away after the… incident with Sherlock. It seems not. The waiter asked us if we want the wine menu. I was expecting him to ask if we wanted a rose.

20:00 – Starters have turned up. Foie Gras with Truffles. 'Pate de Foie Gras aux Truffes'. That is way more than I expected to eat. I'm wearing my small trousers too, they're my nicest pair. Could I get away with not eating it all? But I don't want to worry; I just want to enjoy myself. This is the first night I've had out in a long time. And it will probably be the last if I keep acting like this. I just need to make conversation. About something. Anything.

20:15 – The food. I could have chosen anything and I go and choose the food. He must think I'm such an idiot. Mycroft's been great though, pretending he cares about what I'm saying. I wonder when he'll get round to talking about whatever it was he wanted. He doesn't seem too angry; maybe he's not here to yell at me after all. He's really clever as well, he knows so much about everything. I swear he's even cleverer than Sherlock, and I never thought I'd say that. He knows normal stuff too. Stuff that affects commoners, even if I do say so myself.

20:35 – I'm really enjoying myself. Mycroft is such a funny man. I'm sure he must have had a reason for coming here, but I guess he must have forgotten it. And we get on so well. I'd forgotten what it was like to have a nice conversation, with someone who treats me like an adult. I'm sure he must have broken National Security, with some of the stories he's told me but I'm in such a good mood I don't care. He makes me feel… alive? No. Special, that's it. Like I'm worth something again. Like I've got something to live for.

20:40 – I know I said I wouldn't eat much but… wow, this food is amazing. I had Roasted fillet of Cornish turbot, new season asparagus, peas, broad beans, morels and Iberico ham for my main course and Mycroft had Suckling pig, crispy belly, roasted loin, homemade sausage, chou farci and braised leg with crushed potatoes and spring onions. I know it sounds like a lot but really, when you start eating, you don't stop. Mycroft is a machine; I swear he can eat as much as ten men. The only problem is when we're eating, we don't talk, and when we don't talk, I feel nervous. I overthink again. You know, think about anything, the weather, money, work, the inquiry, my divorce. Normal stuff. Not how this is the closest I've been to a human being that's not paid to be near me, not how my trousers are uncomfortably tight, not how close our legs are and that if I reached out over the table I could reach his hand and get that human contact I've not had for so long. No. Not that.

21:00 –He's been to the toilet twice in the last five minutes. Maybe it's time to make my excuses and go.

21:05 – Oh God. He doesn't expect me to pay, does he? I can't afford food from here.

21:10 – He won't let me skip dessert. Shall I pretend I've left my wallet at home? Maybe I should just run for it? I can't. This is the best night I've had for ages. It's the best I've felt for ages. I can't leave.

21:20 – Well, we've got dessert. Caramelised tarte Tatin of apples with vanilla ice cream. For two. It's a couples dessert. For couples. Romantic couples. The type that kiss and… you know. And I saw the price too. I'm going to be bankrupt for months. And that's not counting the drinks. An endless supply of wine and a good few glasses of lager. I've got to pay for a taxi back as well, and I bloody hate taxis. Don't trust the drivers.

22:00 – He's giving me a lift back. In his car. That's a bit romantic right… right… I shouldn't have had that last glass of wine. Or the six before that, to be honest. He has a very nice car. Posh. And very big. With a chauffeur too. Not many people have a chauffeur, I guess being the British government has its privileges. Does that make him my boss, being the British government? Office relationships always end badly, that's not good, is it? I am so drunk. If I married him would I be Mrs British Government? I hope I haven't said any of this out loud.

22:10 – He's leaning away from me. I've put him off. And I swear I was only singing Danny Boy to relax him. He seems so stressed. That nasty Sherlock, never thinking about anyone but himself. He destroyed John, lost me my job, stressed out his charming brother; what a nasty man.

22:25 – He's taking me to bed. I won't start.

22:30 – He's gone. I don't think he wanted to stay, he wants to meet up again though, he said. I think. I'm not really sure, I think he was slurring. Who gets drunk on the first time they go out to dinner with their… friend? Acquaintance?

22:35 – We didn't pay. How naughty!

22:36 – Asleep

06:00 – What the hell have I done?


End file.
